


Thinking About the Other Half

by Lockedinjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohn/pseuds/Lockedinjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John couldn't help thinking about Sherlock, it wasn't his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

           

 

            John came home from the pub one night like every Friday evening. He’d had a rough day with Sherlock and a nasty murder case. Like almost every day out with Sherlock, it ended with a headache and hurt feet. Fridays were the days where he allowed himself a break (not that he didn’t disobey himself on other days), and went to the pub. This particular evening had been a bit rough and John became a bit more… intoxicated than previously planned. After a few, then a few more, then a few more to top himself off, he headed, or really stumbled, out to the curb to hail a cab.

            When a cabby insane enough to pick up a blubbering drunk finally came by. John opened the door and scrambled inside, saying only “t-take me to Sh-hh…Sherlock.”

“You ‘ave to tell me where ‘at is, sir,” grumbled the cabby. “Wonky name ‘at is anyway, Sherlock.”

            John murmured to him, “t-tuh…two t-two one b-bee Baker Street,” and promptly blacked out.

            He woke up with a pounding headache and a dry throat to see streetlights and the door of 221b Baker Street above him. He felt too unremarkably weak and sick to trudge all the way up the narrow stairway to his flat, only to collapse once more on the couch or floor. He quickly fell back into a deep drunken sleep, wondering if the cabby had asked for cash, and if he’d given him any.

            The next time he regained consciousness the first thing he saw was Sherlock on his laptop at the table from the couch. Thoughts rushed through his mind.

_How the fuck did I end up here? Did I pay that cabby? What time is it? Do I have my cell?_

“Oh you’re up, lovely.” A strong, low, gentle yet firm masculine voice came from Sherlock’s mouth.

“I-“ John managed to get a fragment of a statement out before Sherlock’s booming voice started shooting answers at him.

“You really need to keep track of yourself when you drink, John. Drinking has various health risk factors you should be aware of as a doctor. I expected you to be drunk last night but as I tried to bring you upstairs you seemed adamant about sleeping on the stoop, so I paid the cabby and left you there. Later you seemed more compliant. I led you upstairs, you led yourself to the couch and now here we are. Your cell phone is in the right hand pocket of your coat on the chair and if you check it you’ll see it is 2:13 in the afternoon and your sister called you twice. Drunks tend to lose their cell phones. It’s really impeccable you should still have yours. Your tea is in the kitchen.”

“Right,” John managed. “Thanks.”

            After peeling himself off the couch, he made his way to the small kitchen where Sherlock usually did his experiments and picked up the cup of tea from where he would usually sit. Piping hot. As if Sherlock knew that he was about to wake up.

“Did you-?”

“Yes. It was obvious from your breathing regulation and eye movement when you were to wake so I decided to make tea. Hangovers are not, I presume, pleasant. Please stop bothering me with predictable questions, John, I’m thinking.”

            John sipped the tea.

“Er, Sherlock? Did you put cinnamon in my tea?”

“Mmm…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes it helps with headaches.”

“Right. Okay.”

            John took the tea to the bathroom where he stripped off his grimy, sweaty clothes. After doing so he realized that he’d forgotten his towel and quickly weighed his options. He could call for Sherlock to bring him one, though the chances of him responding at all were slim to none, or he could put all of his rancid clothes back on, which was hardly worth the effort. The only other thing he could think of was to run through the flat nude and grab one himself but he didn’t want the landlady Mrs. Hudson to catch a face-full of, well, him. He decided to go for option A and revert to option C if necessary.

“Sherlock! Could you bring me a towel? I’ve forgotten mine!”

            Surprisingly enough, moments later Sherlock arrived and rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door.

“Jesus thank you!” John gasped.

“Try not to forget next time,” Sherlock said as the door opened. “I was in the middle of research about tree frog poison.” He pushed the door open more, accidentally it seemed, with his foot. As John scrambled to shut the wide open door, Sherlock handed him the towel and glanced down at John’s, well, _member_. To say glanced would really be a misstatement because in all reality his gaze met John’s area for the entire time it took him to fumble the door closed. John waited for Sherlock’s footsteps to tell him he’d left, but heard nothing.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“For _fuck’s sake_ go away I’m in the loo!” Sherlock’s footsteps then led him away from the bath, leaving John his privacy.

            Stressed by the day before and the last night, woozy from the headache and the nausea that accompanies hangovers, and frustrated with the mental image of Sherlock eyeing him out, John decided to have a go at himself in the shower.

            Stepping into the hot comforting water was like heaven. He coaxed his half-hard cock into submission, dismissing the idea that Sherlock had half-aroused him. Images of bouncing tits, glorious bodies, and full-rounded asses filled his view as he beat himself mercilessly. He envisioned a nice brunette sucking him dry, bobbing her head, all the while stroking his pulsing prick. He leaned on the wall of the shower and stroked harder and faster, to the point of no return, and suddenly the glorious head of brown hair turned into a head of luscious black curls, the performer looking up at him to show smooth alabaster skin accompanied by blue, green, and gold eyes, a deep pure voice saying his name… _SHERLOCK?_

            John let out a long grunt and gasped for breath after finally coming… to Sherlock? He shook the image of Sherlock’s longing face looking up at him from his mind and suddenly took notice of the piercing hot water pelting his back. He looked up to see that he hadn’t even turned any cold water on to begin with. He hopped out of the piping hot shower, shut it off, and grabbed his towel.

            John made his way to his bedroom with no trouble, but what he didn’t notice was Sherlock looking up at his rear as he passed, holding his gaze there as if unaware there was any danger of John turning around to catch him. He was right.

            John slowly got dressed, careful not to look out the window at the piercing light. With tender care so as to not disrupt his headache, he closed the blinds, opened the door to the bedroom, and started to make his way to the couch when

“John, are you ready?”

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, for what? Can’t you see I’m a bit hung-over?”

“A bit is an understatement. The fresh air will do you good. I’ve called a cab.”

“Fucking hell.” John mumbled under his breath.

           

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John realize that their relationship might be a bit more... interesting.

Trying to ignore the sunlight coming in through the windows of the cab, and the entire idea that he was in a moving vehicle, John chanced at an explanation from Sherlock.

“Right, what is so important that you had to take me with you?”

“I always take you with me on cases. It’s what partners do. Triple murder, no known connections. Dimwits.” Sherlock chuckled. John knew that Sherlock was already a leg up, hell, a body up higher than the police department at all times. John glanced up at Sherlock and, despite the glaring sunlight, couldn’t help but admire the same flawless moon-shine skin he’d envisioned in the shower moments ago. “No!” John thought, “I’m _not_ gay. I’m not. No.” He shook his head a bit.

“Something wrong?”

“No! I mean, no. Fine, I’m just fine. Thanks.”

But Sherlock had lost interest it seemed because they had approached a run-down looking flat on a street John had never even heard of.

            When they entered, a breathful of musty corpse-ridden air met John’s nose, making him cough. It was a smell he was familiar with, but not a pleasant one. It reminded him of Sherlock, though.

            John regarded the room. To his left was a paint-chipped black white wall, a half closed wooden door in the middle. Toward the back of the entrance was what seemed to be a tall winding stairwell, and to his right, a similar white wall with two more wooden doors.

            Sherlock seemed to know exactly where to go as he hastily lead John up the stairs to the second floor. Greg Lestrade and a crowd of police officers stood surrounding a doorway into the back of the flat.

“Er, Sherlock, John. You’re here. As always. Okay Sherlock, do your thing.” Lestrade moved aside to reveal the open doorway toward the crime scene.

            Moments after Sherlock entered the room, he left it, saying only “it was the banker from Sussex; Dean. Call the woman’s husband and he’ll tell you the whole story if you merely say the name ‘Dean’.”

“How the hell do you know _that_?” Sneered a rookie officer.

“Did you even _see_ her coat? Moron…” Sherlock spat back, turning away from the door and starting down the stairs.

“Yeah but what in God’s name makes you think saying ‘Dean’ will do anything at all?” The officer was adamant.

            Sherlock turned. “If you look with any real intent at all of finding out what was going on, you could see the mud splatters on her heels and coat. Where has it rained in London in the past twenty four hours? No where. Where could a woman wearing a coat like that go that was wet? Definitely not anywhere out of her comfort zone in the city, obviously. She was in Sussex.

You could deduce that either from the mud splatters or the word ‘Sussex’ itself on her coat. Now who lives in Sussex? Again, obviously not her, because who would want an expensive souvenir coat from their own home town? _Dean lives there_.

Dean knew about her other lovers, got angry that he wasn’t her only secret, killed the others. But he got lazy, oh yes, very lazy. A murderer would never let his victim wear a coat from his home town.

Now about the husband, he knows. He knows about the affairs and Dean and the first two murders but he was okay with them. He never knew Dean would go this far but he can’t tell because he knows he’s next. Confront him after dealing with Dean and boom, two arrests in one day. Still doubt me? See for yourself.” Sherlock seemed satisfied with that and promptly trotted down the stairs, leaving the room speechless.

“I’ll just, well, I’ll just go then.” John stuttered.

            It was difficult for him to conceal his erection, as Sherlock’s rants into detail usually made him tender and excited at the least convenient of times. Now that he thought, he thought he remembered Sherlock shuffling something around “down there” under the stairs where no one could see. He shook the idea away. “Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, marching down the stairs after his mysterious partner.

“So that’s done then?” John asked Sherlock, who had been waiting in the cab.

“Yes. Stupid case really. Easy. Boring.”

John wished he had an overcoat like Sherlock to replace his curiously placed hands.

“John you can move your hands, it’s okay. It’s fine, trust me.”

“I-what?!” John stuttered.

“I know you stole the ashtray from the stairwell table. It was the only real thing of value there and now it’s gone. This shack was a bit more shabby than the Palace I must say. Don’t try to hide your pockets.”

“Oh, erm… yeah.”

John did not move his hands, however, and merely kept staring out the window of the cab. Sherlock chuckled, John ignored him.

            When they returned to 221b, John tried to make a break for the bathroom, but Sherlock stopped him. “Actually,” he said, with a look of what John could only discern as desperation, “I’d like to use the bathroom first if you don’t mind.” John, so as to not look precarious, allowed him to go. “Yeah, alright,” he said.

            He waited in the hall outside the bathroom for Sherlock and couldn’t help but hear a slight grunting noise coming from inside. He blushed even though no one was around to see him. Hearing Sherlock’s sounds of satisfaction was, unwillingly from John, quite pleasing. He moved closer to the door so as to hear better. Sherlock’s grunts became faster, rougher, and closer together. In a short while, a long satisfying moan filled John’s ears and brought him into a very uncomfortable hot sweat. As he heard Sherlock’s footsteps approach, he jumped back, having just realized that his ear had been pressing up against the door.

“All yours.” Sherlock said shortly, giving John a court smile. John rushed inside, ready to perform a simple and very quick task, but when he breathed in, billows of Sherlock’s scent met his nose. Suddenly all he could picture was Sherlock getting off, the sound of his delicious grunting filling John’s ears. He couldn’t wait any longer. He practically ripped open his fly and whipped out his pulsating prick. He tried to envision Sherlock as clearly as he could. Sherlock stroking him, sucking him, just like in the shower. He went further with his mind, Sherlock naked in front of him, crawling in a seductive manor towards John’s straight up cock, ready to give needed attention to him. John envisioned the perfect blowjob, Sherlock cupping his balls, licking up the shaft and playing with the tip with his tongue. He suddenly used his whole mouth, and John pictured using his hand to guide Sherlock’s head. He thought of hearing Sherlock saying his name with that low, luscious voice cascading over him. Cooing. “John,” he said, looking up at him. “John…” This had done it for John, and he sent himself over the moon with satisfaction, letting out a long low moan.

“John!” The voice came from outside the door.

“Fuckin’ hell. I’ll be right there!” John spat. He hastily cleaned up and zipped himself in before swinging the door open. It seemed as though Sherlock had been listening at a similar distance as John had, but hadn’t bothered to jump back at the sound of him. As soon as the door opened, the two lustful men were chest to chest.

“John I…” Sherlock mumbled, “I left my phone on the sink.”

            John was at a height so that his head would fit perfectly into the comfortable nook between Sherlock’s shoulder and  his neck. He took a long deep breath of Sherlock’s wonderful scent.

“Yeah, alright.” He said, a bit lightheaded from the wave of delight and longing he’d felt just from breathing in his counterpart.

            As Sherlock went to retrieve his phone, John decided he might hint at what he’d been feeling. “Sherlock, I…” He started.

“You what, John. What? I don’t have time for this.” What had John been thinking?

“Sherlock I think that I…”

“Oh. Well, John,” Sherlock approached John and stroked slowly and gently down his arm to hold his hand. “Me too.” He whispered, barely audible except for a low rumble of words, planting the softest of kisses on John’s forehead.

           

 


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go further than they expected they might after quite a traumatic incident.

And so the two sat the next day, pinkies entwined on the couch. John, laptop warming his thighs, chuckled. “I never thought I’d have to learn to type with one hand!”  
Sherlock smirked, a comfortable twinkle in his eye. The small creases of their fingers together felt like fabric. A warm wave of well-deserved affection was palpable in the small living room of 221b as the duo shared moments of intimacy together.  
This all-too fine frenzy was cut short, however, by a twidly-dum chirp of Sherlock’s phone. This abrupt sound broke the steady atmosphere the boys had created, which in effect brought John back to reality. Sherlock shuffled to get up, leaving John’s little finger cold on the cushion behind him.  
The familiar twinge of a smile on Sherlock’s face told John that Lestrade had texted him. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, an action Sherlock recognized all too well as agitation. He chuckled. “Good news,” he said, putting his knee on the cushion next to John, leaning toward him. “Murder” he whispered gently into John’s ear, giving the effect of John having been plunged into water that was both cold and warm at the same time. This feeling was accented by the soft kiss that met his neck, just below the ear.  
It was hard for him to shake this as the two scrambled to leave their flat.

 

The cab was hailed and the partners found comfort in the familiar seats. Pinkies latched again, the boys’ gazes met different parts of the scene. 

John, still unsure of whether he was okay with a public display of this new relationship, stared out the window to a very bleak view of London.  
Sherlock, however, was a different case entirely. Having little experience with sentiment of this sort, he saw no special reason for concealing any affection he would feel toward John. He gazed unabashedly at the soft curves in John’s face; the gentle crevices of his forehead, the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. He let his eyes pass over the strong brow and the warm sturdy veins in John’s neck. So much of this man was beautiful to Sherlock that he deemed it unnecessary to hide any admiration whatsoever.

It’s hard to describe how love feels, even when the person in love isn’t Sherlock Holmes. To this particular man, love wasn’t only an enigma, but a disembodied force that took over his body – a sensation he was not used to feeling. The chills, arousals, billows of happiness at the sight of his lover we each, in their own way, new and, dare he say, frightening experiences. Sherlock Holmes was out of his element.

John noticed this behavior almost immediately. “Sherlock,” he said, turning to his partner. “I don’t think I want to tell anyone about… us. Not just yet.”  
This proposition was met with a furrowed brow and a grunt.  
“You don’t approve of this?” Sherlock asked, giving John a piercing look.  
“No!” John exclaimed. “No, not that at all.” He shook his head and smiled. “I just meant,” he went on, “maybe we could keep this to ourselves for a bit. We can have one another in secret.”  
Sherlock’s lips curled into a pleasant smile. “A tempting offer,” Sherlock said, shifting his lingering gaze to John’s eyes. “As you wish, John.”  
The rumbling voice cascaded over John, and the hidden meaning of the words struck him as a firework to a toddler: exciting, beautiful, and shocking. Sherlock cared about John. John mattered. He was not just a flight of fancy. He was met with a wave of warmth despite the chilly day.  
Sherlock squeezed John’s finger gently and pulled his sleeve over the two hands, hiding the connection entirely. The only hint was the pink on John’s ears.

 

When they arrived at their apparent destination, as John never exactly knew where they were going, he couldn’t help but think he recognized the place. He couldn’t quite come to how. It was a sort of melancholy feeling that met him as he left the car. Nonetheless, he followed Sherlock toward a quaint farm-house looking abode, a likely dwelling of a cozy family. Very unfit for its location in London.  
The outside of the home could barely be described as extraordinary as it was extremely average. The large black front door matched perfectly the oversized windows and black shutters. Time was obviously put into the complexion of the house, as the brilliant white paint looked like it had never been chipped.  
Despite the lack of interesting sights, John could not find enough to look at. The melancholy feeling had not left him. He accompanied Sherlock into the house.  
It was obvious the room in which the crime had taken place because of the familiar gaggle of police officers surrounding it. The next thing that happened, however, was not ordinary. 

Lestrade shuffled over, an unsure look accompanying his wizened visage.  
“You’d better stay here,” he warned John, glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock gave no sign of acknowledgement but simply turned to John to say “wait here. I’ll come get you.”  
Now John, an army doctor, was not happy with this arrangement. Why wouldn’t he be allowed in? He was Sherlock’s partner after all! Why should anything be hidden from him? What could have possibly gone wrong that John couldn’t handle? Curious though he was, he stayed.  
And he waited. And waited. He waited. No one ever waited this long for Sherlock. John couldn’t help thinking something terrible had happened. His heart began to beat faster, and his brow began to sweat. His comfort from earlier in the day had fled his body. The warmth from Sherlock’s hand was almost a distant memory as he stood in the empty hall waiting for a sign of life.  
The urge to burst through the door into the room was overwhelming. So that’s precisely what he did.  
John pushed past the startled police officers into a damp shady bedroom, incredibly unfit for the home itself. What met his eyes next would never leave him.  
His sister Harry lay lifeless on the hard wooden floor, a pool of blood bathing her head. The cries of his name drifted slowly away, growing steadily more distant as what he was seeing sank into his consciousness. He could no longer feel the arms roughly trying to pull him off of the ground. His mouth turned completely dry, and his body felt the same way. Unable to make a sound, he tore his gaze away from the bloody sight and turned toward Sherlock.  
The worried emotion that came from Sherlock’s face caused a cataclysm in John’s brain. Emotion toward John? From Sherlock? A single tear ran down John’s check before he swallowed hard and slowly stood. He left the room, a sound like a high pitched whistle echoing prominently in his otherwise empty mind.

The image of his dead sister was stuck in his head; lodged deep within the confines of his memory. He didn’t realize that Sherlock had been walking beside him, or that he’d been grasping his hand tightly until they reached the cab. His whole hand seemed intertwined with Sherlock’s, a sight John did not want public. But the scent of Sherlock along with his warm comforting hand was a necessary commodity for him at the time.  
“Sherlock,” he said, careful to avoid his voice cracking, “my sister has died.” The two entered the cab.  
“Yes, John” replied Sherlock, looking directly at John, his voice softer than silk, and smoother than velvet. “I thought you might burst in.” John ignored that comment.  
“It would have been better if I’d-“  
“No, Sherlock.” John interrupted sharply. “Nothing could have made this better.” John’s ears grew scarlet. “You think you understand sentiment, Sherlock, but you fucking don’t!” His voice was rising and his nostrils flared. “You just do not know what this… what this is like.” His voice cracked here, and he was unable to go on. He’d let go of Sherlock’s hand.  
The silence that followed was as loud as a roaring waterfall.  
“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, looking ahead at the back of the seat in front of him. John didn’t reply, but instead took Sherlock’s hand once more, and the two sat in a warmer silence.

Sherlock, however, was not fond of the moment, placing his hand on John’s inner thigh.  
“What the fuck are you doing?” John asked sharply.  
“Nothing,” replied Sherlock. “My hands are cold.”  
But instead of moving his hand away, he moved it closer to John’s crotch, making him blush.  
“Sherlock, we’re in a cab!” He said quietly, glancing at the driver’s seat.  
“We won’t always be,” mumbled Sherlock in John’s ear, kissing his neck. His hand gently glided up until it was directly on John’s warm, and already erect, cock.  
“If this is too much right now, tell me and I’ll stop” whispered Sherlock, stroking John.  
“I think I need it” gasped John as the cab pulled in front of their flat.

 

The two rushed up the stairs and fell onto the couch, tearing clothes off all the while. Sherlock kissed John’s collar bone, causing John to let out a long airy but gravelly sigh.  
“Sherlock,” he moaned. His arms were already moving to rip off Sherlock’s button down, after all those buttons were always threatening to pop off on their own, a sight almost unbearable to John. He couldn’t quite manage to pull the shirt over Sherlock’s head and instead ripped it apart, casting buttons about the room.  
“Watch it!” Sherlock rumbled, “I keep that size for you.”  
Jesus, thought John, running his hands down Sherlock’s pearly white back. All the while Sherlock had been kissing, nibbling, sucking at John’s perfect neck, making pleasurable grunts as John ran his hands all along Sherlock’s surprisingly toned body. The lanky effect of his clothes was not flattering to the sheer strength that was hiding underneath, a strength he used to lift John on top of him so that John was now straddling Sherlock on the couch.  
“Incredible,” mumbled Sherlock amidst deep sensual kisses.  
“What?” breathed John, eyes closed.  
“You never told me you could move your hips like that.” chuckled Sherlock.  
John had been revolving his hips in a way that let him massage himself and Sherlock at the same time.  
“Fuck,” John whispered. Sherlock ran his hands from John’s chest to the back of his neck, pulling him closer into their kiss. His breath flowed down John’s unbuttoned shirt, making his nipples hard. John ran his hand through Sherlock’s vicious curls roughly before taking grasp of his nipple. He squeezed. A guttural moan of pleasure came from Sherlock and spurred John on. His shirt was quickly off, and he was moved by Sherlock to be face down on the ground/  
“Don’t move” Sherlock commanded.  
John grunted as Sherlock placed his hands behind his back forcefully. Sherlock’s hands came around him to unbuckle his trousers. They slipped off with ease, also moving John into a sensual arse-in-the-air position.  
Sherlock then used his long delicate fingers to tear apart John’s cheeks. John couldn’t see, but felt a warm hard object toying with him as Sherlock’s hands moved over his bare back. John sighed. He needed this.  
“Please,” he moaned, closing his eyes. Sherlock chuckled. He slowly entered himself into John - not all the way, just the tip.  
“Fuck” exclaimed John.  
Sherlock began pulsing in and out of John unbearably slowly, grunting as he went. He still was not entering more than two inches into him, something that was driving John crazy.  
“FUCK Sherlock, give me all of it! Stop fucking playing around with me you- AGH!!” Sherlock suddenly thrust his entire cock into John’s arse, and it seemed as though John’s whole body echoed with the intensity of it. Sherlock had not allowed him to see his dick before this, and he hadn’t known how fucking long it was.  
“-prick!” John moaned, ending his sentence.  
It was hard to believe how much strength Sherlock’s body could hold. He seemed to rock John forward and back with his own thrusting. He bit his lip and seemed to enjoy the steady grunting moans coming from John, who was finding it hard to keep his hands behind his back.  
John could tell Sherlock was about to come by the way his breathing hastened, but he didn’t want to let Sherlock come, he wanted to make him come.  
He tore himself out of Sherlock’s grasp and forcefully pushed him back onto the couch, spreading his legs with his hands. As he leaned in to kiss Sherlock, he whispered “my turn,” and worked his way down his chest with gentle kisses, toying with him.  
He reached the pulsating cock and kissed gently the tip. He slowly worked his mouth over the head, licking away the precum. The shaft was so long he didn’t know if he could take it all, but the moans of satisfaction from Sherlock were too much. He took the whole thing in his mouth and gagged with the intensity of it, looking up into Sherlock’s opal eyes. A hand met the back of his head, guiding it.  
John licked up the shaft, kissed the tip, teased the sack, and did all he could to make Sherlock finish the best he ever had. Sherlock’s breaths grew shorter and his grunts faster. A drop of sweat dripped down from his temple, plastering a black curl to his forehead. And he came. His whole body shuddered with it, ricocheting into John, who took the load with pleasure, licking it back into his mouth. He’d never had a man before, but he guessed he’d done pretty well judging by the amount of silvery fluid on his tongue.  
All it took to set John off was a look from Sherlock as he squeezed his junk and he finished, the sight of Sherlock coming having already done him in.

 

As the two spooned nude on the bed now, John chuckled to himself. “What?” Sherlock asked.  
“I’ve just had gay depression-sex with my boyfriend. This day has been more than eventful.”  
And the two smiled in the dark, quiet bedroom, aware that their company was keeping one another sane.


End file.
